


Chaos For The Fly

by SMAfelli



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: 1890s, Dracula Influence/References, M/M, My Chemical Romance References, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Serial Killers, Time Travel, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-01-31 12:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21446581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SMAfelli/pseuds/SMAfelli
Summary: After the bizzare circumstances of a young womans death in 1892, Frank Iero becomes curious of the rumors of undeath surrounding her, and leaves to Rhode Island to visit her grave.Although a painfully skeptical man, he is greeted by strange faces, strange conversations and unreal situations alike.He meets Gerard Way soon after his arrival, and ends up wrapped up in the strangely educated mans "job". What he didn't expect as he stepped off of that train was that he was soon to be catastrophically sent back in time with the man he thinks to loathe. Maybe they shouldn't have messed with the supernatural.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. A Warning

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO!  
I know a lot of people skim over the notes, but I'll make this quick. You have probably read the blurb and felt a little disoriented, but trust me, as this gets updated it will get MUCH more interesting. For now, have fun in an overwhelmingly average Frank's point of view.
> 
> I also wrote this to show my unnecessary amount of love for the history of vampires. In the beginning of the story, I write about how somebody who died accused of vampirism ironically died around the same time Basketball was being made popular. Not something you would be asked on a school quiz.
> 
> I plan on updating a few times a week. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A train, a dark joke, and Mikey

To die today, and to have "Basket Ball" created the next day. It would be a shame.

At least, that was what schemed itself into Frank's mind. The dancing little diablo on his shoulder encouraged him to laugh at his pitful joke, but he resisted.  
He loathed his ghostly intolerance, unaware or unaccepting of the fact that it was simply a way to deter from the guilt of what he was cursed with.  
Palms laced with sweat in each crevice, he made cold contact with the rud material of the train. The train he, comparitively, loathed.

Would a man truly be a man if not for his sense of callow naiveness that would follow him and lead him to the grave?  
Frank felt his body draw in a sharp breath against his own will, to which he unfortunately let out a belch in retaliation.

No, a man would not be a man without it. Frank sure as Hell wouldn't.

Running his forced, sweated grip over his arm as he couldn't deny the fact that someone was looking at him.   
"Hm." He hummed in acknowledgement, but didn't dare to look back in that very moment. He was doing it for foul-play at first, to give whoever had the audacity to let their venom circled pupils land on him, but then he truly got lost in thought.

Why was he here? He had kept questioning himself of that, though he knew the answer.   
Again, it was out of selfishness. A selfish desire that no man would morally be able to explain into words.  
Perhaps if he had taken a trip from New York to Rhode Island in favor of a sweetheart. Someone whose sex had been full of heart, that even through letters he could not do anything but take the special railroad there.  
Maybe he could use the excuse of saying his family resided in Little Rhody.

Who was there to kid, really? Nobody would ask of his origin.   
At the influx of ideas, he stiffled out a physical chuckle, his knuckles flexing his fingers against his drying palms. Christ above, let nobody take sudden interest in the man amongst the crowds.

To say he was glad that the train was coming to a halt was both a lie and an understatement. For where he was going once he walked off...

Oh, he really did need to stop doing that. He knew what he was doing.   
Frank Iero, man of many questionable intentions, was visiting a grave. The excuse of visiting a _dead_ family member crossed his mind, but he shut it out as he went over his plan, feet hitting the concrete in gratitude.  
No, Frank was not visiting a family members grave. In fact, far from it.   
Word had let loose even in the rancid depths of suburban Jersey that the mentally ill of the Salem trials still existed, and that they had suspected a death related to such atrocious ideas.

Heavens forbid. Gods forbid! The undead were at work here, in the tiny speck that was Rhode Island. Frank's malicious face jerked into a grin, but then fell after.

He had read in the papers that a girl had been accused of undeath, and as is tradition for old secluded fools, they preformed haneous rituals.   
Even Frank didn't understand exactly what it was, truthfully and purposely skimming over the bias details from the newspaper he had read.

Mercy Lena Brown was her name. A name that Frank personally felt rang beautifully. To be subjected to such clear insanity----It was disgusting.  
Mindlessly, Frank felt his hand kneading at his pockets, searching as naturally as a dog to a carcass. Feeling for a pack of fags, he sighed when he was left starved.  
He planned on going to the graveyard where the now-dead woman rested. What to do after that? He was unsure. It was foolish for him to even consider coming here, as something in the back of his mind gnawed at him all while whispering that it wasn't his place, but that only coated him further with a layer of unknown intent, even to himself.

"Sir." Someone spoke, their voice distant and nothing but noise to Frank before he could comprehend it.  
Slowly, he spun around, hands making their way into his pockets, an eyebrow raising as he locked eyes on the source.  
A boy. Well, at first he looked to be a boy. When he found himself staring up to see the male locking gaze with him.

"I think you left something behind on the coach. Right?"

He was intimidating, sure, but not for any conventional means.  
His hair was an odd array of color, and yet it was not unnatural. At least, if you only glanced at it.

It was as if it was brown, but it had smog of dusted blonde smothered in the centre as if forced there by unknown means.  
"Oh---Er, well." Frank found himself spouting out. Had he? Why couldn't he just throw up a simple 'No.'  
"Maybe, maybe not. I find myself a bit half-assed lately."

It was a slip of the tongue, a natural response from Frank Iero but a surreal one to the public. He found fear in the fact that the man before him didn't flinch the slightest at his fluent sailor language. In fact, Frank could see the bastard nod, approvingly from what he could see.  
"A map, you see." He responded noncholantly, searching his own pocket and holding the crinkled paper flimsily between his long fingers, reaching towards Frank.

Frank held a moment to himself to despise his forgetful nature. He had paid good money for that map. Hell knew that he had so much to spare.  
"Bless you, good man." He spoke in slang, reaching up and taking the paper in his own palms, to which it crinkled in acceptance to.

The man's eyes set themselves on Frank's hand as it slipped from his long sleeve, and for the first time in the conversation, he could see a glint behind those glasses of his.   
Frank let his eyebrows crinkle in confusion, until he realized that his tattoos had exposed themselves to the other, boldly proclaiming their existence.  
This man would truly see Frank as a sailor now. Though he was sure he would never see this skeleton of a human being again, he couldn't help but search his eyes for a reaction as they met his.

Only to be returned with that neutral look again. Along with that brisk nod.  
"Be careful in these parts. Visitor or not, you'll be watched. By various folks, of course." 

A threat? Or an honest spout of truth?

"With a small state comes close connections. Be careful," The man adjusted his glasses, glancing around at seemingly everything.  
"Good sir." He added on with a faux clearing of the throat.

Frank still looked at the man endearingly and in slight offense. He couldn't tell if he would be held at gunpoint by this man later, or if he would even see him again under more pacifist agendas, but it intrigued him.  
"The name's Frank." He responded, conversationally disregarding everything else spoken.  
The man's mouth twitched before he eventually replied on his own.

"Mikey Way."


	2. The Other Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A graverobber, a prescription and Gerard

Inevitably, or the opposite so, Frank found himself disheveled in the presence of Go  
Red on top of white, veins only plastering themselves on the pure white bliss of the heavens, the image of eyes rolling back in pure delight.  
So physical. So enchanted. It was like an excorsism, but with the touch of a sultress tracing through every layer of skin.

Frank found himself laughing at the concept, staring at the brazen stone before him.  
He had seen such fanatics react to stone carvings of Christ before, unable to handle the sheer presence of a handmade figure that a man with an unkept pencil mustache spent a few figures on. For the sake of tourism and a moments satisfaction for said fanatics, of course.

To him, it was a twisted joke. If God did watch over him laughing at his stone statue, then he would let his arms coil into the warm embrace of lightning striking his body and allowing his blood to warm to the point of explosion within him. Which, he truly felt, was long overdue.

Perhaps that was a tad morbid, but the thought still resided.

Making his way towards wherever he supposed the grave would be, he mocked his own scribbles on the map mentally.  
Every now and then a physical slip of word would make itself known. Usually the ramblings of a sailor, or a madman in denial.  
"Mercy Lena Brown." He softly whispered, hand twisting his tasseled locks.  
"Died January 17th, 1892." He spoke, voice raising slightly as he echoed the punctured words on the tomb.

A left, and then a right. Before he deniably was frightened by a passing jackdaw, he questioned if he was even in the right cemetery.  
There couldn't be too many of them in Rhode Island, he convinced himself. It would make more sense for bodies to be buried in New York, Hell, even Jersey. It was hard to find family that weren't spread between the three states anyways so to be against it was a foreign concept to him.

A caw, once more. It was actually on the brim of irritating, as it slowly built up in a symphony.  
Frank swore on every fiber that his body held that birds were getting smarter. His mad mind started to conjure the idea that they were doing this deliberately, causing him to groan and follow after the oil feathered source.  
"Cocky beyond belief, honestly..." He spat, eyes taking much too long to adjust to the site before him.  
A dream, it must have been. Just for a second. Maybe he fell unconcious for a measure, or maybe the entire sequence was him imagining a crude story being told to him.

To say he was witnessing a grave robbery seemed to, shockingly, be an understatement.  
It seemed to check the list. A man hunched just a few feet in front of him, shovel tossed to the side crudely and uncaringly. It seemed to have gotten the job done and that was all the man needed, but what sent Frank into a state of such shock and pity on a plane of different levels was that this man did not have the meat on his bones to be attempting what he was doing to Mercy Lena Brown's troubled soul.  
The grave robber couldn't even get the grave to open, and seemed to resort to trying to flip it with just as much failure as before. In the scarce light, he could see the mans fingernails, chipped and bleeding underneath from desperation.

To die one day, to have Basketball created the next day, and to have your grave desecrated. His heart swelled in sympathy for the girl.

"Sir..." He called, much more quiet than he had intended. God. What was he trying to aim for? Clumsiness seemed to be the answer.

The man snapped his whole body around, contorting it in every direction until his gaze landed on Frank. His eyes were hungry, red gradient eyes peircing his soul, and his deathly undereyes encouraged the chocolate locked mans regret even more.  
The scruffed man made his way towards Frank, a clawed finger shaking and increasing in blur as he moved closer.

"No." He simply rattled, breath heavy as he started. For fucks sake. Was this guy going to give a speech? It seemed so, because he breathed in so heavily that Frank hoped his lungs wouldn't be able to handle the oxygen intake. 

"Christ as my witness, God as my creator, and Satan as the harborer of my sins. I will not let some bricky bastard stop m' from paying property taxes."

For a moment, Frank took this man as a connoisseur for the whole 'undeath' dilemma, but he seemed to just be a lost cause with a shovel.  
"Pal," He improvised, knuckles flexing.  
"I don't think this is a good way to pay that coke prescription. Have you read the paper?" He raised his eyebrow, his tongue swiping across his lip, as if it would wipe the snark smile he could feel.  
"Of course I have! If I even get this'n femur bone, I'll run the market. You know the one." The elder spewed, a laugh lining his scratchy tone.

Frank did not know the one, but only a fool wouldn't figure that there was an underground market. There were underground markets for everything if you knew how to find it, of course, but in more recent events an already vomit inducing industry had become more tight knitted. Rumors of families involved in these businesses were strong in recent years. Especially in New York.

Maybe this man was apart of these organized groups? Frank looked him over once more, his body deciding to shake its own head at the idea. No, he was just a desperate fool. He recalled what the fellow--Mikey, as he remembered--had told him. Everybody is suspect of everybody.

"Look, sir--" He started, not completely of where he was to go. That was, until he was interupted.

"Excuse me?" Someone called, their voice strangling into a shout as the carriers footsteps drew closer. Frantically so, actually.  
Frank was left with a gaping mouth and an internal boil of irritation that he had been interupted. Maybe his tongue was going to spew something of worth. Something that would give Frank the time to scare the grave digger off and bury Brown's body again without a sound.  
A silent hero, to him, was much more ideal. Maybe then he would feel fufilled. After all, he was only in this very cemetery on useless impulse, searching for something that even he had no clue of.

The real Hero seemed to be strutting in, though, and Frank could see him come into the limelight faintly past blurred vision.  
"Oh, sake! Two fairies. Two." The elder man suddenly shouted. Frank had became too distracted to even notice his anger, but the familiar slur had brought the tobacco spitting schoolboy out of him.  
As if by instinctive reaction, he relaxed, rolling up his sleeves. The gravedigger's eyes tore away from the other half-shadowed man and onto him, and his mouth fell into an 'O' shape.

The Hero spoke again, seemingly unknowing or uninterested that Frank was there. Even though the old man was warily staring at him instead.  
"Pardon." The Hero said, his throat clearing. Frank scowled from a distance, distaste washing his tongue a thousand times over at his sing-song voice. 

"I'm the part-time watch for this yard, particularly this grave and casket here due to recent events."  
The man stepped closer, and the scarce light hit his already pale features so harshly that Frank could feel tears swell in his eyes.  
He could tell why the old man called him a fairy. He was...he was. No doubt about it. It took Frank another minute to even bring himself back into reality as he became (unknowingly blissfully) fearful of the mans features. Such a stout face, hair so unkept and yet clean. Suit so normal, and yet, the usual red and black made him look so theatrical. So unreal.  
He was a girl of a tobacco poster, but _not_. Frank's breath hitched, but he played it off with a cough, which earned a first glance from the Hero.

The first thing Frank heard was "Deal."

With that, the old man and scent of rust evaporated into the air.  
Frank was left alone. With a man who still stood in the light, gaze so set on what he imagined was the barely visible figure of the man.  
Frank stared. The other man stared too, but not at him.

Frank's eyebrows knitted in sudden frustration. His potential glory had been robbed by--a salary rozzer?  
His eyes became red with fury, but he spoke in a stable tone. He couldn't help but let a few words slip.

"If you're a pig, then why aren't you wearing a badge?"

Bold. One of these weeks, he was going to get decked in the conk.  
He had been before, but at this point he was willing to risk getting punched by a man who probably owned a wig or twenty out of spite.

He turned, blinking at Frank.  
A look came over his face. Almost pouty in the lips, but his eyes remained cold. He was hesitating.  
"Under the wraps sort ah deal." He responded, accent thick enough to choke Frank.  
So, he was from Jersey. He knew that well enough.

Despite that, he couldn't help but be slightly disgusted. An undercover cop was somehow worse than a loud cop. At least, you could hear the heavy steps in the latter.

Frank grinned, and then let it fade when the black-haired man walked away.  
He had went to the casket.

Right. The casket.

Frank Iero was going to burn in Hell. For this, among other things.

"Help me, pansy." The other suddenly hissed, catching Frank by surprise, taking the wooden handle in his frail hands already.  
Frank felt like he was being played again. Just like the jackdaws. He was giving Frank no time to respond with the classic fairy gesture. It was either Frank sucked it up, or the other dropped the deathly home of a poor desecrated girl. To admit it, or be an asshole? It shouldn't have been such a hard decision.

"Fuck you."


	3. The Chimera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shovel, a bar, a brick

Frank ended up helping the Hero.

"Helping" was a bitter way to describe it. It was more or less Frank clenching his teeth, hissing as his splintered hands clumsily dropped the casket back into what he assumed to be the original place.

He had also learned that the mans name was Gerard. Frank had insisted on learning Gerard's last name, for formality of course, but the raven-everything man refused with a huff. He seemed to go in and out of thought every few seconds and it was _really_ beginning to screech at him.

"How's that?" Frank coughed, staring down at the almost vacant hole below him. He found his hands tracing themselves to his pockets, where they sat and fiddled themselves against the cloths. Nervously?  
"It's decent, pal." Gerard nodded, letting out a breath. Frank spotted his hands snaking their way over his pockets, patting ferociously. For a pack of fags? God, was he so bad at putting a casket back into a hole that this flimsy man needed a cig? Probably.  
"Why on Earth were you here?" Gerard spoke suddenly, eyes glossing over Frank as if he were a foreign object.  
Frank let out an unimaginable noise. High pitched and whiny, though it was brief. Undeniably embarassing no matter the length.

Why was he here? Well. Were he to tell the truth? To a half-time pig? Well, a lighter sentence was better than the weight of bacon.  
"I'm visiting from Garden State. I read the paper." 

"Of course, I didn't know that I would find a corpse digging for another corpse." He quickly added on, watching Gerard's eyes wittle suspiciously as his attention focused, finally, on Frank.  
"You had nothing to do with this." Gerard twisted his words, speaking back for confirmation. Frank lifted his hands up, palms shaking for effect.  
"On my mother and the mothers before her, I assure you."

Gerard only nodded. Frank took this as a sign of satisfaction in his answer, because right after his hand plunged for the shovel that the elder had left behind. It was, least to say, a damn awful looking digging stick but it worked. Gerard seemed to be an odd man, but even Frank would be shocked if he started piling dirt upon the casket with his bare hands like the working class alley cat he was.  
Actually, he couldn't tell if he was working class. Frank couldn't see shit in this lighting but those unecessarily tight pants he adorned could blind a bat.  
"Help me." His voice rang again, and Frank found himself being the one throwing dirt on top of the casket, while Gerard held the shovel in his grimed hands.

"So," Frank started, glancing over at him.  
"Are you a lousy pistol or are you up for a whiskey or three?"

Like a dog, Frank braced for a hit upside the head with the morning news. It didn't come though. Only the sound of metal to dirt stopped. Gerard had hesitated.  
"You're absolutely a ratbag, as I suspected. Hovering above a dead body, and you want a pint?"

Frank frowned. He shouldn't be taking this from a man in skinny pants.

More than a pint, after this, but Frank decided to bite back the jest for once.  
"I have a job to do. As genuine as drug slinging might be to you, making sure this doesn't happen again is a little more important."  
That hurt. Pained him much more than he would've liked. 

"You don't know a damn thing about me."

What a soft response. A real man, as Father Everyone would say in this age, would tell him to jump to his feet and knock Gerard right in his pretty face. Instead, he took offense. Regret in that followed after, but he made no attempt to cover it up.  
He could hear Gerard's breath hitch, and the cold breath that escaped past his lips was a faint but telling cloud. Would he be the one to throw a hit? No.  
"An hour, tops. I suppose it would be a good time to pry a lie out of you." He remarked, taking the last few chunks of soil and patting it over the now-filled hole.

Oh, so that was what it was. Pity and selfishness. Gerard sought Frank as a criminal, but had no proof to go by. Maybe the drunken self he hid would confess to a crime he didn't commit, and he would find himself locked in a mausoleum as punishment.  
Either way, booze was booze.

"Follow me. Leave the shovel behind too, Gerry."

It wasn't a shock to anyone that Frank had no idea where he was going. In these circumstances, especially. Maybe if he didn't have a cold, calculating cop-prostitute over his shoulder, judging every sway and breath he took in silence.  
When Frank looked over his shoulder to see Gerard doing the exact opposite of that, his hazel hues widened. Gerard was silent, yes, but he had been gazing at the city. Taking in the scenery.  
How he could even see anything in the pitch black of the city was beyond him.

Frank bit back a public acknowledement of it, already seeing the scowl and actual judgemental look that would follow soom after. Instead, he took advantage of the night haired mans absence.  
In New York and Jersey, Frank knew all of the locations of the bars to be shunned. The bars that you needed the right connections, and perhaps the right one night stands to get into. That was, the fairy bars. The hedge-creeper hangouts.

Was Frank looking to take up a man in a wig? No. Not tonight. As much as his fragile masculinity scowled upon it, he adored the drinks there, along with the much more comfortable beds there.  
He could ask the one following behind him, of course, but that would ruin the satisfaction. There was also the suspicion that Gerard, hailing from Jersey, had no idea either. Depending on how long he was working with the pigs in the graveyard.

Eventually, Frank let in, angrily turning to face the older man. Gerard almost ran into the steaming male, but gladly halted and stared down at him in disinterest.  
Frank hated that it pissed him off so much more.

"Where's a fairy bar?" He finally spoke, voice hushed as he looked around.  
Gerard blinked at him. It seemed to be disbelief. Frank swore on God, if _this_ guy didn't know where one was---  
"Just up here. Disguised pretty well, actually." Gerard responded with a hum, inadvertently taking the lead.  
Of course he knew.

"I didn't take you for the type, Iero. Are the tattoos a cover story?" Gerard questioned, a genuine tone of curiousity laced in his words. Frank found himself clenching his fists.

"I like the hospitality."

At that, Gerard seemed to shut up, or at least hold off on a response. Frank wished he had peered over his shoulder to see what expression he held.

A step, a block, a mile, a state went by before they reached their destination. 

The Chimera.

A name that seemed to be an attempt at raging masculinity. Surely a ring of daints sat around a table, presenting the most outlandish name to hide such a soft interior. The Chimera was the result.  
Frank grinned at his own joke, spotting Gerard's glance in the corner of his eye.

"What?" Frank frowned, looking at him.

Hesitation.

"Not a thing, sir."

It was sarcasm, but said so quickly that nobody could respond without looking like a inept madman. The feeling heightened when Gerard stepped through the doors of The Chimera as if he had bought the plot.  
Now that Frank thought about it, he hoped to Christ that this bar had heavy juice. He would need it to cope tonight.

Frank followed Gerard, refusing to let himself shrink in the eyes of anyone behind his taller company.  
Eyes landed on him, all sultry and pleading, but no mind was given. Frank Iero was here to plunder like a seaman and pass out on a rented bed full of nails and old fluid.  
Gerard stopped in front of the bar, turning to face Frank, who this time couldn't hold back his shrinking.

Gerard was gorgeous. The word seemed so wrong to use on someone who didn't bear a chest or the parts that came along with it, but there was no other words to use.  
All so womanly, and yet, the way his dirty black mop clung to his pale skin made him look like the body in a casket. He was the black contrast in this Chimera, from his locks to that threatening suit hiding his body.

"Ah." Frank choked out, unsure of what to do.  
Gerard barely took notice, looking around.

"Did you know there was a murder here not long ago?" Gerard tested, patting on the stool that begged for warmth next to where he was starting to settle.  
Frank smiled. Dumbly.

"No."

Then, he found himself sitting down. He didn't remember the movement he had made to do so, but remembered his eyes locking from Gerard to the bartender.  
Gerard mumbled something to the pencil stached man before continuing. Frank was alarmed until he realized that drinks were being scooped into his arms.

"Somebody took a rod and killed a woman." He explained, taking a glass of who-knows from the man, nodding at him before taking a shot.  
Frank stared dumbfoundedly at him. Someone had gotten killed here, and yet, it was still buzzing with life? He found it hard to believe, but refrained from questioning as joy overtook his body. Whiskey had just been planted into the crook of his arm.

"It was a messy kill, actually. The fella punctured the heart but snagged the lungs as well." He went on, lips pressed against eachother as they quickly began to dry.  
"She was--an escort, per say. Didn't make her death any less tragic. What was interesting about it, though, was that after she died a brick was forced into her mouth. Not before. _After._"

Frank took a chug, and saw Gerard looking fully amazed in the corner of his vision. God, he was insane. A prostitute died, tragic in these days, right?  
He put the bottle back down on the wooden table, this time taking the role of disinterest.  
"So what? Folks are into dangerous things these days. Maybe a little brick to mouth action with a corpse got the fella off--" Frank rambled, and to his surprise Gerard slammed the desk.  
Luckily, in the loud bar, the noise was drowned out, but Frank could definitely feel the vibration. His slowly intoxicated body hid from it, but his growing boldness reared its head.

Gerard was seething. Clearly offended, but Frank couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was that set him off. Was the hedge-creeper his friend? His escort? His lover? Frank bit back a smile. No way in Hell was Gerard with a woman. Or, maybe that was his natural resort to denial speaking.  
"So you're going to be an intolerable drunk too, right?" Gerard's voice shook slightly, taking an equally trembled shot after.  
"Mhm." Frank hummed, eyes wittling in gratitude.

Gerard was silent once more. For a second.  
"I don't work at a cemetery because I'm a monster. I find these cases very interesting, and so I'm working to be able to investigate them." Gerard said, forcing the enthusiasm out of his voice. An empathetic part of Frank rose at that. Had he really just stepped over Gerard's, albeit odd, passion?  
Quietly, he put down the booze. He could at least be a bearable ass to him, just by listening and giving minimal response.

"I make decent money. Enough to pay for these drinks. They're desperate for people to sit in a graveyard with no defense. It's a start to a career, I take it."  
Gerard joked once he had noticed Frank's attention. Huh. That wasn't wrong.

Frank took note of the fact that he had zero defense. Against him or that graverobber. If Frank really wanted to, he could actually take a swing at the other, but he found no use in it. Not now especially.  
"You know what, Gerry?" Frank slurred slightly, a laugh escaping him at Gerard's reaction to the butchering of his name.  
"I'll pay for beds. We can stay here, someone will be forced to take over your job for tonight, and we can piss on the wall in drag."

Gerard scowled at him, but then seemed to think about it.

"It's a metaphor." Frank quickly added, waiting for a response eagerly as whiskey infiltrated his veins.

"Fine."


End file.
